


I Only Call You When It's Half Past Five

by lordsanga



Category: Cricket RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 05:08:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14825876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordsanga/pseuds/lordsanga
Summary: “Right, right,” Tim nodded, “Behind this beautiful and icy exterior, wicketkeeper Tim Paine is just a boy looking for love.”





	I Only Call You When It's Half Past Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [awkwardsorta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/awkwardsorta/gifts).



> To E: You're my number one babs xx. DO YOU KNOW HOW HARD IT WAS TO HIDE THIS FROM YOU? I only hope you love this as much as I love you. <3
> 
> Shoutout to the best cheerleader/beta/girl for tolerating my tense switching, editing this with love, and believing in me and keeping me going through this, [CrookedRain_CrookedRain.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OurFontIsBigger/pseuds/CrookedRain_CrookedRain) You're a star. And also shoutout to Abbey & Drunk Aunt, who remain fandom MVPs for pulling this all together, listening to all of us wail about not having our shit together, and for being kind and supportive and wonderful. LOVE YOU LADIES.

Travis texts him when he gets the call-up.

It’s lost in the torrent of texts that drains his phone battery within an hour of the announcement. He doesn’t get to it till the end of the day, after sorting through all the calls and messages from family, from his old teammates, from his new teammates; from Steve, from George, from Sutherland, from Boof. He’s exhausted by the end of it, crushing the last can of diet coke from the crate and telling Ricky firmly no, he really had to go, cutting him off before Ricky can chart the exact trajectory of his batting mistakes through the past seven years and how to correct them for James Anderson’s bowling. He's about to shut his phone off when he spots it again, sitting with a bright green unread bubble on WhatsApp.

 _Really pleased for you kiddo,_ Travis had written, _Can’t think of anyone who deserves this more xx_

He scrolls up the chat history. The last they had spoken was a few months ago; _well, let me know if you need any contacts, my boss knows some great companies in tas_ , Travis had said, and Tim had forgotten to reply. That was before Kookaburra had offered him the position, back when he had considered retiring and was lost for what to do next, Travis was the first person he could think to ask.

His finger hovers over the reply button, ready to retype the message he has been sending all day; _thanks mate, really appreciate it,_ but something makes him pause. He clicks on the call button instead.

Travis sounds surprised when he answers but his voice is warm, and it makes Tim smile.

“Just wanted to say thanks for your message,” Tim says, and grins when Travis tells him he’s glad Tim still remembers the little people. “Always have time for the fans.”

“Can I get an autograph? Or a selfie?”

Tim pretends to consider. “Do I get anything in return?”

“I’ll buy you a drink. Hell, for an Ashes player? I’ll even throw in dinner.”

“Watch what you promise,” Tim says. “We’ve got a pre-tour game in Perth next week.”

“Oh, now I regret this.” Travis laughs. “Still tight, even with that new Cricket Australia contract?”

“Excuse me? Did you not just offer to take me to dinner of your own free will?”

“I’m reconsidering,” Travis informs him. “I forgot that you are not a cheap date, Tim Paine.”

“I heard real estate pays well,” Tim says, and adds, seriously. “But if it’s not enough, I will let you can sell the autograph on ebay.”

It makes Travis laugh again. “Send me your dates,” he says. “I’ll see if I can pencil you in.”

  

 

The last time he had seen Travis had been two years ago. It was early summer, towards the close of the Shield season, and Tasmania were playing W.A., back when Marshy still trusted Tim enough to let him fly out with the team. Travis had messaged a few of the guys in the team about a barbeque at his new place after their game; part housewarming for new friends, part homecoming for old teammates.

 _And,_ he’d texted, in a follow up message to Tim outside the group chat, _you can finally meet him._

Tim was careful to take his time to reply to it; did it at lunch on the fourth day, when he was sitting in the dressing rooms, watching Joel Paris systematically destroy their batting, an edge off Dohey falling cleanly into Whiteman’s hands.

 _Can finally get to judge him;)_ , Tim texted back, ignoring the crash of Dohey’s bag and bat beside him. _Make sure he’s right for you and all that._

 _I beg you to go easy on him,_ Travis replied, _He’s from Perth, but I promise he’s not a total bogan._

_From Perth? Your standards have already fallen._

_Play nice, Tim_.

 _I’ll give him a chance,_ Tim said, typing quickly before looking up to see another wicket fall, Fekete looking dumbly behind him as the Western Australians huddle into a celebration. _I’m generous like that._

 

They had stayed late at the W.A.C.A that evening, Marshy and George giving them a talking down for the fifth game they’d lost in a row that dismal season. Tim asked George if he was coming after, and George shook his head, telling him he was too tired.

“Have fun,” he’d said, giving Tim a quick kiss on the cheek, a rueful dimple flashing. “Be good.”

Tim rolled his eyes at that, and shook his head at George, telling him not to stay up for him. He caught a taxi with Triff and Birdy, and they arrived late, when Travis’s friends were already there, beer bottles in hand, wafts of cooking beef and grilled sausages coming over from his barbeque.

Travis wrapped an arm around him when he saw Tim, eyes lighting up and grip firm around him. Tim didn’t let himself linger in it, and Travis eased off, pulling away to introduce him to his boyfriend.

“This is Shane,” he said, and Tim extended a hand. The man was tanned and tall and good looking, dressed in a rolled up shirt and jeans, and he told Tim he worked in real estate with Travis at his new company, which was how they met. Tim watched them as the evening unfolded, sitting together close, teasing, a bit sweet and silly, and it was odd to watch Travis like this: attentive, protective, attached. There was a tenderness to him that Tim hadn’t often seen before, soft gestures of his big hands, gentle on his boyfriend’s back, quiet when he ducked in and shared a joke, smile reaching the crinkles of his eyes.

 

It was that night that he had told Travis he was seeing George. He hadn’t expected to; didn’t feel like the time or place to call attention on it, but Travis had seen the way he was looking at him, and caught Tim later, alone, by the drinks.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, as he cracked open a bottle of Stella for Tim, and Tim raised an eyebrow. “I’m letting the single side down.”

“Oh,” Tim replied, and his voice was deliberately light. He wavered briefly, and then, “We might be both letting it down.”

Travis looked caught by that, but gathered himself enough to ask Tim if he had finally gotten around to dating Ricky Ponting. Tim laughed and shrugged his shoulders.

“No,” he said, “George.”

Travis worked quickly to cover his shock, but not quick enough that Tim didn’t notice it, and he had felt some savage mix of guilt and satisfaction.

“George? Like,” Travis paused. “Our George?”

Tim nodded in confirmation, and it seemed to take Travis several moments to decide what expression to land on, before he gave Tim an unconvincing grin.

“How long—?” he asked, “Is George even—?”

“Not too long, and he’s always been,” Tim said, and it came out defensive. It seemed to make Travis remember he was meant to be nice, and he shook his head, smile wider, warmer.

“Sorry – I’m not trying to interrogate. Just – taken aback,” he said, and Tim smiled tightly. “I’m happy for you. I am.”

"Someone came over to Travis then, saving them both from replying. Travis excused himself and Tim kept to himself the rest of the night, seeing Travis only when he left, telling him he was exhausted, and giving him a brief hug."

“I’ll see you around later,” Travis said, “You still owe me details, kiddo.”

“Yeah,” Tim had said, stepping back towards the cab. “Later, I promise.”

 

 

Travis asks if he can pick Tim up at the airport, and Tim agrees. He flies there a day or two before their practice game, trying to swallow down the nervousness and newness of it all, jittery, feeling like he was twenty-five and making his debut all over again.

He spots Travis at the coffee shop by the gate when he exits. Travis looks up from his phone when Tim says his name, face breaking into a wide grin. Tim slides the bag off his shoulder so Travis can give him a big inviting hug, squeezing his body against his.

“You look good,” Tim says when Travis lets him go, and he does. He’s filled out a bit; the effect of three years of retirement, but he’s wearing a well fitted shirt, sleeves rolled up, and his dimples cut deep into his cheeks.

“Thanks,” Travis says, and gives him a once over. “You look tired.”

Tim hauls his bag up his shoulder. “Yeah, a surprising career resurgence among intense media scrutiny about how you can’t do it will do that to you.”

Travis looks at him, concerned, and Tim laughs, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m kidding,” he says, as Travis walks them towards his car.

“You’re not.”

Tim takes a minute, called out, before he shrugs, agreeably. “I’m not,” he says, and waves Travis off when Travis tries to help him haul his bags into the back seat. “But I don’t really want to talk about it,” Tim closes the back door, and gives Travis a grin. “Where are you taking me for dinner?”

“Well, I was thinking, since nothing in Perth’s dining scene is going to impress you—”

“Naturally—”

“And since you’re a big celebrity now—” Travis continues, ignoring Tim scoff, “— why not the hottest place in town, Chez Travis?”

Tim looks at him in dismay. “What have I done to deserve this?” He narrows his eyes at Travis. “Are you trying to poison me? Who hired you — was it Wadey? Petey? Surely not Whitey, he doesn’t have the face for murder.”

“Shut up, Tim,” Travis says, amicably. “Don’t pretend you haven’t spend the past three years dreaming of my fried rice.” He looks over at Tim. “Or, more importantly, that Tim Paine is going to say no to a free meal.”

“Caught me there,” Tim concedes, grinning lopsided. “It’s a good call, to be fair, I think I’d like some peace and quiet.”

 

Travis’s house is comforting and spacious, big white walls and modernist, neutral furniture, sports magazines scattered on the coffee table, the kitchen clean and metallic, looking sparingly used. It looked llike Travis still lives alone, the pictures on the bookshelves of Travis’s family and friends, the socks and shoes scattered across the entrance all his. He leans against the kitchen counter watching Travis busy himself with the stir fry, the constant motion reassuringly distracting as they talk.

They fall into a conversation that feels easy as it has always been, like they didn’t spend three years and thousands of miles apart. Travis asks him about the call up, asks Tim if he’s nervous.

Tim takes a beat to reply, standing next to Travis as he carefully cuts up an onion, focusing on the staccato rhythm of his chopping.

“Not nervous,” he says finally, carefully. “Not exactly.

“A bit antsy, I think,” Tim says, and he exhales when he says it.

“Well that’s fair, right?” Travis says, “Before something that’s as big as the Ashes.”

“I just,” Tim says. “I feel like people want me to owe this chance to someone,” Tim shrugs. “Like I should be grateful for having a shot at something that I lost because of seven years of shit luck.”

It makes Travis pause, and he sounds careful when he replies. “You don’t,” Travis says, and he tips the cutting board into a bowl, scrapping it down with a knife. “Owe it to anybody but yourself. But you know that.”

“Yeah. I’m not sure everybody else does, though.”

Tim walks over to stand by Travis at the stove, looking over his shoulder at the food, and is quiet till Travis turns around, too much in Tim’s space, trapped between him and the counter

“They’re all talking about me,” he says, and he doesn’t move away, eyes meeting Travis’s. “I’m not naive,” he shrugs. “Everyone feels like I jumped the queue, and they’re all wondering why.”

Travis’s eyes soften, and Tim steels himself for pity or condescension, but it doesn’t come. Travis sounds gentle though, and nudges Tim’s torso with the back of his hand, just a gesture of affection. “This isn’t like Michael again,” Travis says, shaking his head. “Nobody’s out here thinking you’ve—”

“Yeah—” Tim says, quicker than he intends to. He steps back, half unconsciously, and Travis says, voice careful,

“Tim—”

“No, you’re right,” Tim says, and he smiles at Travis. “I just hate people talking behind my back about what I deserve or don’t deserve,” he says, and he forces a laugh, to make his voice more steady. “I just want to play like I don’t need to prove more than anyone else on the team I deserve to be there.”

Travis squeezes his shoulder before he turns back to the food, and tells Tim he understands. He lets Tim drop the topic, distracting them by asking him what he’s putting in the stir fry, and asking if he’s trying to kill Tim with amount of schezuan he was putting in.

“You’ll live,” Travis says, rolling his eyes as he sets two plates in front of them on the table. “You big baby.”

Tim laughs, but he doesn’t take a seat. Travis draws a chair, and looks at him, but Tim steps towards Travis instead, and Travis searches his face.

“Sorry,” he says, and shrugs his shoulders. “I’m not trying to make this dinner all about me.”

“Tim Paine,” Travis says, and his voice is part amused, and part soft. “When is it all not about you, anyway?”

Tim rolls his eyes, and Travis laughs at him. “It’s a fair point,” Tim says, voice dry and entirely serious, and Travis laughs again, fixing his gaze on him, unmoving, until Tim shifts, and asks him, “What?”

Travis considers him, and steps back, taking a seat and pulling the pan towards him. “Nothing,” he says, and he’s still grinning to himself. “I just missed you, you know,” he says, almost to himself, and Tim looks up at him from his own seat.

“Yeah,” Tim replies, after a pause, feeling something twist in his stomach. He focuses on the food, helping himself to a big serving of the rice, before he looks up at Travis to speak. “Yeah, me too.”

 

 

Five years ago in Melbourne, on a night during the Big Bash, a sharp pain flared up in his finger, unexpected and uncontrollable, when he held a toothbrush the wrong way. It was the first time since he had snapped it that it had come back so acute and sharp; there was usually still a dull background ache that Tim tried to ignore, but that night was the first of the many times it would feel like it was broken all over again.

Travis had been in his hotel room at the time, putting his clothes back on while Tim brushed his teeth. He had rushed in to the bathroom when he heard Tim cry out, and tried to take Tim’s hand. Tim had snatched it back, instinctively snapping, making Travis look at him, worried.

“Fuck,” Tim said. “Sorry, didn’t mean to. I just—”

“Are you okay?” Travis asked, voice careful. Tim hadn’t replied, sitting at the edge of the bed, staring at his hand. He unfurled it and gently stretched out his fingers, looking at them as though he could x-ray them through sheer force of will, and Travis had sat down too, weight making the bed dip by Tim’s side.

“I think it’s okay,” Tim said, after a beat. Travis put an arm around him, surprising Tim, but he leaned against it, feeling a burst of anxiety flood to the pit of his stomach, as sudden as the pain. “I don’t think it’s injured again.”

“We can get it checked tomorrow,” Travis said, and the gentleness was unbearable. Tim shrugged his arm off, and shook his head. “It’s fine,” he said, heading towards the bathroom. “Or,” he called out, as he picked up the toothbrush again, gingerly. “It’s not fine, and I’m out another year.”

He nearly bumped into Travis when he came out of the bathroom, Travis standing right at the door. Tim raised an eyebrow at him, and Travis stepped in before he could comment, pulling him into a long and lingering hug. Tim eventually sank into it, and when he pulled away, asked him if he was leaving.

Travis stopped and said, “Yeah? Did you not want me to?” He surveyed Tim, and Tim tried to keep his expression neutral. “I was taking my cue from the tooth brushing,” he said, with a slight laugh.

“No,” Tim said, and made himself give Travis a smile. “I was just asking.”

“Hey, Tim?” Travis asked, and Tim hummed in response. “You know I can stay if you want, right?” He nudged Tim when Tim rolled his eyes, cracking a smile, voice teasing when he added, “I promise I won’t tell anyone. It can be our little secret.”

“Kinky,” Tim said, dryly, and Travis laughed. “You can’t tell the media, it’ll ruin my image.”

“’I just wanted some company,’ the keeper told our reporter,” Travis said. “’Everyone needs a little company sometimes, don’t they?’”

“Right, right,” Tim nodded, “Behind this beautiful and icy exterior, wicketkeeper Tim Paine is just a boy looking for love.”

“Sources say they just hung out and watched the Bachelor—”

“Ugh, wait, what?”

“—and it was unclear if any spooning went on in the process.”

Tim made a face, pushing at Travis as he grinned. “Get out of my room right now,” Tim said, and Travis grabbed both his hands, pushing Tim backwards instead, towards the bed. “That’s a sick fantasy, mate, you have to keep things like that to yourself.”

Travis succeeded in getting Tim backward on the bed, and he climbed over him, batting Tim off with one hand and grabbing at Tim’s laptop with the other.

“Oh, you’ll love it, don’t lie to yourself, Painey,” Travis said, and he shifted to straddle Tim, thighs trapping Tim to the bed. “And if you don’t, I’ll give you a blowjob to make up for it.”

Tim considered that, and Travis grinned down at him. “A blowjob either way,” Tim said, finally, and Travis laughed, agreeably, ducking down to give Tim a lingering kiss.

 

 

Tim helps Travis clear up after dinner. Travis tries to shoo him off, and asks Tim if he has a fever, what with him actually trying to be helpful instead of being waited on, but Tim gives him a withering look, and takes over dishwasher duty. Travis pours them both a glass of wine, Tim allowing himself the concession pre-series, and hands it over to him by the breakfast bar, lingering close.

“Thanks,” Tim says, quietly, as he takes it, and he doesn’t make to move away from Travis’s space. “And thanks for dinner,” he says, tilting his head. “Pretty healthy and tasty, maybe I should hire you as my personal chef. Cheaper than eating out.”

“I’m not moving back to Hobart, mate,” Travis nudges Tim. “You’ve got to move here for that,” he says, and laughs at the look of disgust on Tim’s face.

“Not even you’re worth moving to Western Australia,” Tim says. “Sorry mate.” Tim says, and he’s grinning too. “I’m not even talking about the bogans. JL? He runs a bloody cult.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Travis says thoughtfully, taking a sip of his wine. “Maybe just in the off season, then. If you can’t stomach the shield cricket.” Tim looks at him, and Travis grins. “If you could bear it,” he shrugs. “Lowering your standards, I know.”

“Oh right?” Tim sounds casual, but he shifts in to Travis’s space, focused on Travis. His hand loosely clutches Travis’s shirt, and Travis’s eyes follow the motion. Tim sets his wine glass aside. “Maybe I could do that for you.”

There’s a shift in the atmosphere when Tim says that. Travis sets his wine aside too, carefully, and Tim takes a breath in, when Travis says, voice low, “Oh? For me?”

Tim lets himself step into it. “That’s pretty intense,” Travis says, and his voice has lowered to a murmur. Tim puts a hand on Travis’s chest, and Travis follows it with his eyes.  

“I can be intense,” Tim says, and he can feel Travis draw in a breath. It makes him shift closer, purposeful, and his hand curls tightly around Travis’s shirt.  
 

 

George once called him trouble.

It was playful; like most things George said, his face flushed and dimples flashing, standing too close to Tim at the end of a team gathering at his house to celebrate the close of the season. It was past midnight, and the boys had all left, trickling out in twos and threes and leaving behind littered beer bottles and empty pizza boxes and discarded team gear in their wake in George’s living room. Tim stayed, volunteering to help clean up, but they hadn’t made a dent in the mess before they found themselves stumbling on George’s couch, tipsy, kissing each other intently.

George broken it off first, putting a hand on Tim’s chest and easing him away, both of them a bit flushed with embarrassment, laughing lightly.

Tim’s grin was rueful when he looked up at George, shaking his head. “Did I misread that?” He reached a hand for George’s jaw, and George caught it, holding it gently away from his body, and Tim flushed a deeper red. “You’re a confusing man, GB.”

“Of course you didn’t misread it,” George said, after a pause. “Of course I want to take you to bed.”

“You do,” Tim said, and he looked at George intently, trying to read him. “But you won’t?” Tim paused, his grin wry. “Because I’m trouble?”

George paused, and looked caught out. “Did I say that before?”

“Last time we slept together,” Tim said, and pulled his wrist out of George’s grip. “You were pretty drunk.”

George groaned, theatrically. “I keep meaning to quit drinking.”

Tim looked less amused, and his body language stiffened, posture defensive. “I don’t know what that means,” he said, eyeing George. “Or what got me that rep, really.”

George looked wary too, and they both surveyed each other carefully. They stayed close though, too close on the couch, knees touching, the room silent except for their quiet, matched breathing. Tim hoped it wasn’t what he heard before, about being too much, like he with Clarke, with Katto, with all the others. Tim waited, and when George said nothing, he added, “I’m not sure who’s been telling you I’m trouble,” Tim said, and it came out sharper than he intended.

“Nobody needed to tell me,” George said, and it made Tim raise an eyebrow.

“Oh right?”

George avoided his gaze, looking to the side, and exhaling. “I’m just going to say it,” he said. “I have feelings for you,” he said, and looked up. “I’ve them for a while now.”

It wasn’t what Tim expected to hear. He stared at George, stunned, and George laughed at the expression on his face.

“Alright -- alright, you can close your mouth now,” and it broke the tension slightly.

“Sorry. Just to clarify. Good feelings, right? Not like,” he said, “Feelings of immense irritation.”  

“Sometimes those too,” George looked amused. “Mostly when you try and mess with my batting order.”

“It just makes more _sense_ for me to open given my record in--”

“I swear to God, Tim,” George said, laughing. “We’re not rehashing this debate and making me get angry when I’m trying to ask you out.”

Tim paused at that, and George was quiet too. He looked at Tim, defiant, a bit, mostly open and inviting, and Tim shifted his weight on his feet, unsure. “Is that what you’re doing?” Tim asked, finally, quietly.

George exhaled, slowly pushing the air out between his lips. “Yeah.” He carefully put his hand on Tim’s knee, slowly running his fingers up his thigh. “I want this,” he said, “But not just -- not casually. I want to take you out to dinner first. On a date, maybe.”

Tim felt a nervous twist in the coil of his stomach that he tried to fend off with a nonchalant expression, asking George lightly, “Are you going to pay?”

“Well, yeah,” George grinned at him, and Tim could tell he was nervous too.  “But I mean a romantic date. The kind where we consider becoming something together,” he narrowed his eyes at Tim. “Not the kind where we go out to dinner and I end up paying, which I’d like to remind you we’ve done, multiple times--”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

“My credit card’s _fine_ , Tim,” George replied, not blinking an eye. “That was just _one_ time.”

Tim smiled, but then shook his head. “You know what I mean,” he said, quiet. “We’re teammates. You’re my captain. There’ll be a lot riding on this.”

George got serious at Tim’s expression and took his hands. “If it doesn’t work, it doesn’t work,” he said, and he had his captain voice on: reassuring, firm and calming, like the time he talked to Tim when Tim was trying not to show his panic about not coming back from his injury.  “I trust you. And I trust me. I trust us to work it out, as friends and teammates. Hey, do you ever notice the word trust sounds funny when you say it that many times?” and Tim finally laughed. George smiled at him, and then daringly moved forward, intertwining his fingers with Tim and tugging them together. “I think whatever happens, it’ll be okay.”

“Yeah,” Tim replied, uncertain, and George pulled him into a tentative kiss. Tim responded, clinging on to it, his hands around George’s back, and tried not to feel like he was drowning in it. “Yeah,” he whispered, when George pulled away for air. “Yeah, okay.”

  
  


Tim loses track of how long they kiss. Like everything else, it feels easy, easy like so much hasn’t changed since the last time they did this, but it also feels different, the tone off kilter, something new about it. It doesn’t make Tim nervous though, something more like adrenaline rushing through him, and he gets his hands up Travis’s back, into his hair. Travis puts an arm around Tim to hold him in place, and when Tim has to break for breath, he doesn’t move far, laughing softly, breathlessly, to break the intensity of the moment.

“Fuck,” Travis says, and Tim grins.

“Still good?” he asks, but it doesn’t feel like a question.

“Better than,” Travis mumbles, and tugs Tim to his body. “God, I’d carry you to bed right now if I didn’t have stairs.”

Tim kisses him again at that, and noses against his cheek when they break, lips against his skin. “Letting a few stairs stop you?” he murmurs, and presses his thighs to Travis’s. “Disappointing.”

“You’re about to start an Ashes series,” Travis says, and somehow manages to sound dry, through how turned on he is. Tim laughs, and kisses his neck.

“Just don’t drop me on my finger.”

“Get up the stairs,” Travis says, in reply, and he pushes away from Tim, reaching out to him, fingers warm as he clasps around his hand.  “And I promise I’ll lift you onto the bed.”

 

They lie in bed tangled and kissing after, naked and sticky under Travis’s sheets, and Tim knows it isn’t usually what they usually do. Travis runs a hand down Tim’s side, and asks him if he is staying the night.

“Is that okay?” Tim asks, and Travis nods, tapping the curve of his hip with a finger.

“I assume since you’re famous now, I can’t take you out to breakfast in the morning, though.”

“You could make me breakfast,” Tim says, voice light. “In bed.”

“Hm,” Travis says, and Tim looks at him, slightly defiant. He leans in and kisses him again, catching Travis off guard, but Travis responds quickly, a hand on the small of Tim’s back to secure him in place.

“You know,” Tim mutters, staying by Travis, lips brushing against his stubble. “This is the first time we’ve slept together in four years.”

“Has it been that long?” Travis asks, and he pulls Tim in a bit firmer.

“That long,” Tim confirms, voice quiet. “Too long. “We haven’t — we never did anything since that boyfriend of yours, did we? What’s his name.”

Travis looks amused. “You remember his name.” He laughs when Tim rolls his eyes, and then adds, softer, when Tim’s done, brushing the back of his hand against Tim’s stomach, making him jump. “Or George,” he says, and Tim meets his gaze.

 **“** Hey,” Travis says, when Tim doesn’t say anything. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with George,” he says, and continues to stroke Tim’s stomach, Tim’s breathing quickening. “I don’t think I said at the time.”

Tim nods, after a beat. “Sorry it didn’t work out with Shane. I didn’t say that at the time.”

Travis laughs, and it doesn’t have much humour to it. “Yeah. But here we are. Both single again.”

Tim's hand is on Travis's chest, fingers light across the hair. “Both single again,” he says, slowly, and shudders when Travis’s hand travels up to his neck, hand gently cupping his jaw.

“Is that why you’re here?” Travis asks, and Tim takes a breath.

“Hm?”

“It’s all a bit sudden, this reunion,” Travis mumbles, “Calling out of the blue, and then us in bed together again. Not that I mind,” he adds, quickly, with a small laugh. “Just don’t know why you’re here, that’s all. Is it because we’re both single again?”

“As opposed to what?” Tim says, and it’s defensive on reflex, biting his lip. “Being here when one of us isn’t?”

“That’s not what I--” Travis says, and then shakes his head. “Nevermind.”

Travis shifts onto his back at that, and Tim feels the loss of the warmth acutely, the chill of the night air hitting him as Travis rolls off. He takes a deep breath, and looks at the ceiling, taking several minutes before he works himself up to it.

“That’s not why I’m here,” he says, and he feels Travis’s gaze on him. He feels a tension run through him that he last felt only a week ago, when a call from Sutherland flashed on his phone, feeling the rush of nervousness and adrenaline and excitement all at once, but beneath that, once it all washed over, an underlying current of calm certainty. He turns to his side, and looks up at Travis. “I’m here because I want to stop lying to myself about us,” he says, voice quiet and serious “I didn’t come here looking for a one night thing.”

“Tim,” Travis says, and is equally quiet and serious when he replies. “Did you come here to propose?”

It cracks the tension instantly, and it helps. Tim plays along, quick to it, not wavering his expression, and nods, face impassive. “Yes,” he says, “It’s a little too late for it, but make an honest man out of me, Trav.”

“This is a bit of a shock, kiddo,” Travis says, and Tim thinks he isn’t fully joking. Tim straightens himself, exhaling, letting a bit of a smile show through on his face, and Travis touches his hip, gentle.

“Are you asking me out?”

Tim nods, and registers Travis’s eyes widening slightly. He holds his breath in anticipation, feeling the familiar tension of it buzz through his body.

“I would have said yes six years ago,” Travis says.

“I know.”

“I still would,” Travis says, and just like that, Tim feels his entire body relax.

“Oh,” he says, and for the first time he sounds a bit stupid, off guard. Travis laughs at him, but he also sounds like he’s laughing a bit at himself, when he tells Tim he’d be a fucking idiot to say no.

“That’s a fair point,” Tim says, and tries to recover something of his expression. He must still have a bit of a flush on, though, his face feeling hot, and Travis grinning at how he looks, hand at his jaw again. He pulls Tim in for a kiss, and its giddy and gleeful and too brief before they pull apart.

“I don’t want to give a speech,” Tim says. “But you’re the only thing that’s made sense in six years,” and Travis’s smile is wider than Tim’s ever seen, making his heart take a little leap. “It was time to stop being regretful and scared about a lot of things, and this was one of them.” He takes Travis’s hand, and Travis squeezes it tightly. “Sometimes I regret not asking sooner, but.”

“But?”

“But then I think if I asked earlier I would have fucked it up,” Tim says, and bites his lip. “Like George.”

“Did you feel like you fucked that up?” Travis says, soft.

Tim shrugs, as loose as he can. “Wasn’t in the right place.”

“Can I ask,” Travis says, and Tim hums, tensing at Travis’s expression. “If you’re in the right place now,” Travis says, intent on Tim. “Why are you asking me? Why aren’t you asking George for another shot? He’s still--” Travis says, and then laughs. “Well, I don’t know. But everybody still--”

“It wasn’t ever about George,” Tim says, and he holds Travis’s gaze. Travis squeezes his hand tightly, almost looking for some sort of purchase, and Tim’s whole body is alive with the tension of it. “I-- we didn’t work out for many reasons, and many of those might have been me.” Tim takes a shuddering breath, and comes out with it. “But I think some of them might have been because I thought he could have been you.”

Travis pushes forward to kiss Tim, and this time they’re both more desperate with feeling, legs tangled up with each other, arms around each other as they kiss. Tim surprises even himself with how hard he kisses Travis back, hand curling into his hair, hooking him secure to his body.

“God,” Travis says, and Tim shakes his head. He can’t stop the dizziness, world spinning around him but in a good way, and he can’t stop laughing, mostly to release all the tension and intensity of it. “Fuck,” Travis adds, and Tim agrees.

Tim adjusts them so they’re settled with Tim’s head on Travis’s chest, and Travis puts an arm around him, holding him in place. “You’re the only thing that made sense in six years,” Tim repeats, this time so quiet it’s almost to himself. Travis hears it, though, because he pulls him in tighter, and kisses the top of his head. Tim closes his eyes and lets himself settle there till his breathing evens out, slowly feeling every muscle in his body relax, settled against Travis’s warmth.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you want evidence of Tim Paine and Travis Birt's ridiculous chemistry, please, for the love of god, watch [this video.](http://link.brightcove.com/services/player/bcpid952317946001?bckey=AQ~~,AAAA3LlbTrE~,XTs1Y4bRYNVfGTueC50C6BBA1t7_upOU&bctid=2026877161001) Also, if you want the definitive article on Tim Paine's tragic finger, including the very canon holding-a-toothbrush-caused-too-much-pain heartbreaking incident, check [this](http://www.espncricinfo.com/australia/content/story/578041.html) out, and be prepared to cry.
> 
> Title from the Weeknd, because when isn't it?


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